From My Pedestal
by GhostoftheMotif
Summary: I was a hypocrite. I kept myself on such a high pedestal, but when I saw that smile I stepped off of it and slipped beneath dark sheets. Then I climbed back up, and the world was none the wiser to my absence. But I was. And he was.


Resolve, contrary to its definition, was sometimes a fickle thing. It adapted with one's wants. It depended solely on a person's strength of will, but even the strong could wane weak with the right inspiration. We'd gone into this under the delusion that our resolutions would stay firm, that we wouldn't give into our desires. I think we'd both sworn to ourselves that the encounter would be brief, bloody, hinging only on our warring ideologies. I realized, as Russia's cool fingertips brushed beneath my shirt, that our feeble insufficient delusion had made fools of us both.

The room was dark, pitch. Meager trails of light slipped from between the curtains and pooled on the carpet but never touched us. It was better that way. It was easier for me to bury my guilt if I couldn't see Russia's face. But no matter how black the surroundings were, I couldn't escape his smile. I felt it, dry, chapped, and cruel against my skin, against my mouth. I parted my lips and took the smile in; it wasn't as though it could get any closer to me; it had already scratched at my heart and mind. This thing… fleeting, physical… it was nothing compared to what that smile had done to my thoughts.

One of Russia's hands left my hips to fumble with the fastenings of his coat. It was maddening how long it took him to undo them all, and I pushed the fabric roughly open and off his shoulders with a hiss of frustration. Russia let out a laugh at my haste, and the laugh seemed to have syllables, words. I wasn't sure if it was Russian or nonsense; they were so similar to me.

Then his eyes met mine, and a faint tendril of light fell across his skin. His mouth was still curled with that laugh, but something in my answering look made the smile falter. His eyes grew searching, and for a moment I thought my expression must have given away my doubt, my desperation, my self-disgust. I didn't give him time to think about it; if I gave him time, then I'd have time as well. My hands fisted in his scarf, and I pulled him down with me as I laid back on the bed.

I shrugged out of my shirt and let out a soft breath as his fingertips traced over my chest. He met me as I moved, mouth instinctively finding mine in the dark. His taste dredged up thoughts of the argument that had brought us here, of the alcohol we'd downed in an attempt to stay calm. I savored the tinge of blood that had blossomed over his lips from when I'd hit him. He must have savored the answering bruise slowly forming over my cheek, because his hand rose to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing the blemished skin. The ache was sweet and brought me back to the present. But I wasn't sure if I wanted to be in the present.

It had been easier before we'd started this. It had been easier before I'd realized that Russia wasn't cold _everywhere_ and that when we were together I could struggle and fight without fear of breaking him or of him becoming truly angry. He liked the way I fought him, liked the way I gradually mellowed out when he was inside me or I was inside of him. He called it endearing, the way I slowly gave into my baser wants. But sometimes when I fought, it wasn't from passion. Sometimes it was because I'd changed my mind and wanted to get away. Sometimes I had to leave while I was still able to forgive myself. As his hands moved down my sides, grip rough and impossible to break, I decided that now wouldn't become one of those times.

The moment I decided to stay was the moment that Russia's hands found the button of my jeans and the moment I forced my mind to blank. If I gave myself the opportunity to consider what was happening, I might rethink my decision. Mentally, I took a step back and let my body run on autopilot. The change in me was reflected in our kiss, and I felt Russia's tongue push my suddenly intrepid one back with amusement, as if to say _oh, so enthusiastic, America._ My body responded with the addition of teeth. Now Russia was the enthusiastic one.

My jeans were tugged down, and my thoughts numbed. I concentrated on the sounds from the streets and nightlife outside. I caught the distant keening of a siren (but wasn't I keening too?) and locked onto the distraction. I sent out a silent prayer for the officer's safety, unsure if the prayer was a prayer or a commonplace wish. I said them out of habit now; did that still count? Then again, if God were going to listen to me, it surely wouldn't be when Russia was between my thighs. I was a hypocrite. I kept myself on such a high pedestal, but when I saw that smile I stepped off of it and slipped beneath dark sheets. And then I climbed back up, and the world was none the wiser to my absence. But I was. And he was. And He was.

I felt myself stretching and ignored it, ignored it, ignored it. I heard a snatch of a heavy bass line from one of the cars in the street. I latched onto it, repeating the rhythm in my head. I knew that song. I didn't like it very much; it'd been played too many times of the radio. Couldn't remember the title. Either the car had stopped at the corner or was stuck in traffic. Someone laid on the horn, and I decided it must have been traffic. Either way, I still had the song. I was thankful for that. The steady thrum reverberated in my brain (or was that his heart?), and I kept up my silent accompaniment. The hand tangled in Russia's hair tightened with the beat.

And then he was inside me, and I no longer needed the city's distractions because Russia felt _good_, and nothing could have made me leave. He pressed down into me as I pressed up into him. My arms wrapped around his broader back, and his weight was welcome, satisfying. The kiss broke, our breathing hot and shallow. His glazed eyes met mine, and I stared back for all I was worth. I wonder if I looked as hungry as he did. My fingers knotted in his hair, gently pulling him down into the crook of my neck. Lips brushed, teeth grazed along the thin skin. My back arched into a thrust, and I could feel the feverish _need_ pulsing in my veins, burning in my chest.

His mouth trailed the shell of my ear. He whispered three words and my name.

In my mind, I screamed _liar, liar, _liar!

Out loud, I whispered the same words and his name, and _oh_ I was a liar too.


End file.
